i can't stand to be so dead behind the eyes
by Knight of Angby Maybe
Summary: And he suddenly thinks, this thought that comes and goes out of nowhere, that it's getting easier, switching from one to the other. Feeling summer in the midst of winter. Or: an Isaac Lahey hot/cold AU.


**a.n.:** Uh, I guess there are some hateful thoughts and even racist ones in this which I do not share with the characters. Also, trigger warning for child abuse, discussion of depression, and of mental issues in general, _also_ there are some pretty deprecating comments about asthma and epilepsy and kids taking beatings (which could fit the child abuse warning, but it doesn't hurt specifying). But it's not anything graphic, so. Oh, and: warning for too many warmth-related metaphors; it's not my fault, it's the story's! [winks]

Honestly I didn't know I had so many thoughts on the Laheys or on Isaac's psycho/puppy situation (it's real! we may never know!), but once I started writing I just couldn't stop. All in all, I swear this is a somewhat happy thing- _a life is shitty but hey at least sometimes it isn't_ thing.

Anyway, enjoy your reading :)

[The title is from the song "Touch", by Daughter, btw]

* * *

**i can't stand to be so dead behind the eyes**

So this is how Isaac's world goes:

His mom used to say that it was a curse, sent upon them from _God itself_, as payment for their sins. As it was, because some humans were evil, they had been deprived of heat; they would only feel cold and bleak and hollow forever, she'd say. And they deserved it, for they were dirty and mean and sinful.

_Even though he quite never understood what did she do wrong to deserve it, or what did _he_ do wrong to deserve it, seeing that he didn't even remember feeling warm enough to _remember it-

to remember something was taken- to _notice_ there was something lacking.

She missed it, warmth, she said it was nice (_oh it was nice_, and then she'd look at the sun like it was a god she worshiped), like soothing light after a too darkened night.

Cam would agree-

"Some are cursed and some are blessed, Ize", and he'd wink while smirking, part arrogant asshole, part mischievous dork.

-saying it felt exactly like falling asleep after a too tiring day. His cheeks were colored pink, most of the time, and he had the habit of wiping sweat from his brows; and Isaac thought his sweat was fascinating, this pool forming above his upper lip, soaking his entire body sometimes.

(Mom would either avoid him completely or stare at him with such longing it made Isaac's skin crawl.)

You see, some people were rosier, and their lips weren't bluish, and they'd wear thinner clothes or complain about the sun, but to Isaac, though, if he's being honest, there was not much of a difference. At least _not really_. He certainly felt slightly more comfortable wearing cardigans and scarves so his body wouldn't _freeze_ (he'd seen homeless people dying from it, in the middle of the hottest day of the year, or so Cam had said), or being tucked under his covers while dad tells of one his stories-

or being hugged, fiercely, superficially, it didn't matter- just _being hugged_ in general

-he'd felt comfortable sometimes, but that was that. He envied the blood on their cheeks, yes, and the light they sometimes bore, but that was that.

Some people were warm and some weren't; that was that. That was the way of his world.

Cam was red and Isaac was blue. His mom's eyes were grey and wistful. And his dad would usually get color on his face whenever someone had messed up pretty bad.

He didn't think he was cursed, not with blue-lips anyway-

maybe he was cursed with other things, but not with this- this didn't make a difference, it didn't put him off-balance.

(This didn't punch and dislocated his shoulder once because he'd wet his bed.)

It was just a part of him, like his hair or the scar on his left ankle. It was just a part of Cam and some of the other kids at school. Or his teacher in kindergarten, whose eyes were brighter than the moon (_don't laugh, Cam, they are_!). It was the way of the world, and he honestly didn't feel like something was missing.

Not until his seventh birthday, anyway, as he was preparing himself to blow off the candles; he looked around at his tiny family, who were staring expectantly at him-

caught in the family-mood, that change in the air when their lives felt like some happy advertising, when everything else is forgotten for the sake of a beautiful moment

(His dad's swim team had just won some- _something important Isaac was sure_\- for he and Cam were beaming, and the light of the candles illuminated his mom's face, painting it redish like she's always wanted)

-and _he felt_ _it_. The small flames from the number seven on his greenish cake against his chin and cheeks, the hot sweat on his armpits and on his palms, from the anxiousness _cos they were all looking at him and god he only had one wish _and the sweater he was (always) wearing. There was another _feeling this fixed permanent almost heavy emotion_\- like a small child's hand place safely around his chest, like mom hugs, or Cam's bark-laughter. This weight, that didn't actually weight a thing, but made itself noticed, made itself unforgettable.

Then, three days later, his mom nearly set the neighborhood on fire with some matches and a lot of wood-

_also a lot of weeping, so much of it Isaac wondered how the fire didn't extinguish itself before it even started._

Some men in white had to take her away _she's lost it, Ize, just move the fuck on_; and Isaac had to add another layer on whatever he wore.

He didn't feel _that_ warm constriction_ it was a constriction alright it trapped him it made him feel safe_ again after that day, but _god did he miss it_. He'd look at himself on the mirror, his face all paleness and sharp edges, and he'd wonder _was that what mom was after_; when she complained about feeling cold and hollow, when she'd sob over the light of the sun, saying she'd _give anything please God, Mary, all the saints and angels_, crying the church songs about faith and hot breezes, kneeling Sunday after Sunday under the cross' gaze, under Jesus' stare; _please just let me feel warmth again_.

(When she'd look at both her sons and her home and thought it wasn't enough- it didn't raise her temperature it didn't make her _happy_)

_He wondered if he had the guts to set the world on fire to feel that again._

He didn't, he hadn't. It wouldn't make a difference anyway- and the saddest part was that _she knew _it wouldn't. Yet, she let herself get dragged away.

He wondered if it was going to take him away too.

(_His eyes and lips were too blue, his skin too pale, he owned too many sweaters and heavy clothing that would stop his body from freezing itself; all because he couldn't feel warmth, even though he had, once. And that changed everything._

_He looked like some sort of ice man when all he wanted was to burn._

Exactly like she had; exactly like her.)_  
_  
For those years after his mom's incident-

the adults would wrinkle their noses slightly (spare the kids from the details _come on_) while saying _incident_, like they were smelling something foul; and Isaac would feel so sorry for his mom it was like his bones were frosting and cracking._ Poor thing looked down by others for feeling cold for too long_

-were the coldest he's ever felt. And he could tell now, the difference between hot and cold. He supposes he could before, too, but the contrast was too small to be noticed. Now, though, it was like being tripped away of his own soul.

It's not like he's _always _cold; his life is not that fucked up, thank you very much, Mrs. Reyes. Still, it's never enough.

(Because even when it's comfortable, when the wind against his cheekbones doesn't feel like knives cutting his skin, Isaac just- sometimes he just _yearns_ so much for warmth (_just a little hot breeze on my neck on my back between my hips_) it- it wakes him up on the middle of the night, panting, shivering; and it feels like he'll never get it, at least not how he _craves_ it, as intense and as strong as he wants it (_needs it_), almost like his mom's addiction have gotten passed to him when those bastards took her poor trembling body away.)

And sometimes it feels so cold (_worst than cold worst than freezing worst than dark and empty- it's nothing_) it's like these walls closing in around him, walls of ice-

actual walls of iron, above him, on his sides, below him, _above him, on his sides, below him_

_(He's in an _actual_ freezer, and if the irony of it all doesn't make him laugh for hours, nothing else ever will.)_

-and he should be used to the cold, he knows; even though he gets glimpses of warmth from time to time, he knows he's mostly a mess of blue lips and clattering teeth, covered in too many clothes for freaking summer (Cam said).

But _god_, he just wants to feel that wave of heat over his body again.

(Except he does; it's just not what he wants. It's just not enough.)

He soon finds out, and later he wonders how had he never noticed it before, that he and his mom were not the only ones with an _unhealthy relationship_ with heat. Maybe it even runs in the family, he could say, weren't his dad such an incognito, this unknown element Isaac never understood and honestly was either too freaking scared or startled or indifferent to try to. Maybe craving warmth it's what makes them -this group of people who share a surname and space and money even though the distance between the chairs at dinner feels like actual miles- _them._

Isaac has stopped trying to analyze or understand his father a long time ago, even before his mom _took the crazy wagon_ (as dad said), so that left Camden, with his pool of sweat and very pinkish cheeks and lips, with his long blond hair and glistening body, so full of vitality it almost tempered the air-

but it didn't, _of course not why would you think it would, Ize, are you stupid_, it was this selfish heat, like this ball of fire Cam would keep boxed inside his _rind_, for his own use.

That left Cam and his active spirit, his bright smiles and loud laughter, but that also left Cam and red, from anger and rage and strong muscle moving sharply and edgy, moving fast and violently.

_Part arrogant asshole, part mischievous dork. Red all over._

After further investigation, Isaac liked to think everybody had _sides-_

although most days it was almost impossible to see further than harsh faces and despicable intentions

although most days it was almost impossible to _be_ more than a harsh face and despicable intentions

-like blue and red moments, from hollowness to fulfillness. Except, he'd reconsider, because his mom only ever froze while Cam only ever burned. Even when subdued, even when slapped on the face, even when humiliated, even when he couldn't take it anymore, he was always too angry or maniacally happy (_happy nonetheless, Isaac would think_).

He'd think Cam's anger was like some sort of fuel, like oxygen, something that kept him going. Because he, as well, couldn't live without this fire, this fever, and he, like his mom, like Isaac was afraid _he_ might end up _being_, would do anything to hold on to it, to find it and keep it and never stop feeling it.

To keep this strength within himself and never let go.

Except maybe that was just who Cam _was_. Maybe it wasn't about feeling his skin boil, even though Isaac couldn't imagine someone _not_ relishing on it, maybe it was just how he was wired. Maybe Cam was born angry at the world, like maybe his mom was born to be cursed, or Isaac to feel small.

Anyhow, Isaac found himself enthralled by his brother's antics. The fights he'd pick up at school, the strength he'd take to his swimming competitions, the wayward attitude he'd put for their father, earning him blows and spit and unnecessary pain- that he'd take gladly, surprisingly, and Isaac was often left wondering if maybe _he_ was taking the blows wrong, for all he ever felt while receiving them was cold and empty and fucking terrified.

Eventually, after getting _and getting and lowering his head and his shoulders and his voice_ while watching Cam get bigger _and bigger and redder_, Isaac sensed his inner monologue shifting from _why does this happen to_ us to _why does_ he _do this to _me and Cam was fucking _ecstatic_ when, during one of his _dad's_ monologues, about how stupid and useless and a fucking waste they were, Isaac just raised his chin and said "Well at least I'm not the one digging graves for living"-

and- and to be honest he didn't even know he had that much malice in him but he _had_ and it felt _good_, this venom slipping out of his tongue; even if part of him felt hurt and betrayed in behalf of his dad and his family- _I mean fucking school counsel who do they think they are_-

-and he's not only gotten the shit kicked out of him, it was also his first night inside the freezer -which was enough trauma for a lifetime, especially since dad thought it was an awesome idea to keep Isaac's pledges and screams and _annoying whining noises_ to be heard from the rest of the neighborhood-

_I mean they already think we're fucked up, dad, what's the difference_

yet, he couldn't find it in himself to regret it.

Not with the feeling like his skin was burning and his eyes were stinging so much they were almost out of their sockets and he had this power _this fire this fucking surviving instinct_ inside of him that made him kick and scream and cry until his throat felt sore. His blood was running so fast and his heart was like a rabbit's and it- it lasted a few hours.

It lasted a few times.

Then it ran cold again. He drew into himself again. His brain jumping and acting fast and shaky and nervous. But his muscles stiff and fucking heavy.

_So heavy the hardest part of it all was always _getting out_ of the box, finding the strength in himself to lift his body up and out of there, then up the stairs, out of _under_ the house, to keep going on with his life as if that night was just another deserving punishment and not _fucking torture god _he knew what that meant, he knew what was going on_-

Then he'd lay on his bed for hours, hot tears wetting his face and his pillow, so angry and boiling but at the same time chilled to the bone-

pull off the covers take off the sweater open the window then wear three shirts find the thickest pair of socks _god I'm freezing god I'm burning_

-because _how could he fight this what could he do- _where could he turn to?

Everywhere he looked all he saw were empty spaces.

In the end, it was fire- in the end, it was actual fire, again. That took Cam, took mom, left their home to pieces, to ashes, and breathing in felt like inhaling carbon, toxic, _wrong_.

Fighting real wars seemed like a good idea to him, he'd tell Isaac, pulling his long wet hair out of his eyes. He's got the attitude, he's even got the patriotism-

or whatever it was that made him feel like he belonged to this group of stupid kids who thought (_what- did he think it'd be like summer camp, only with fireguns and permission to kill) _

-and kicking some terrorists' ass seemed like a _fucking good idea_.

"What is there for me in this two star town, anyway, Ize? They all look down on us cos mom was batshit crazy-"

"Don't say that."

"What-? She _was_, deal with it, man.", he'd sigh, actually vulnerable for five seconds before his usual rage transformed his face, "I gotta fight, Ize.", then lower, like he didn't want to say it but couldn't keep it in, not this, "I gotta _fight_ something. If not here, then out there."

And Isaac wanted to say "And you'll leave this war for me to fight by myself?", but he was too pissed and too- god he_ loathe_ this; this piece of shit life. And he shivered from the cold and he shuddered from the heat.

What he did say was "Then go. Burn alive.", like it was a good replacement for _break a leg, bro!_ or whatever people used to wish good luck, but with so much hatred in his voice he saw Camden's body loose with defeat.

Dad glowed with pride, seeing his beautiful and strong and _masculine_ (as opposed to the chicken shit pale skinny _thing_ at his side) boy all dressed up, ready to serve and _save_ the country.

(It turns into a face twisted in disappointment, in this resignation, but also in this rage that he'd swallow down for hours, for then to disgorge it all on Isaac's shoulders, or face, or back- wherever is available.)

So, all in all, Cam joins the army, trying to burn out this rage he's got. A week after he's deployed, some _nameless anonymous who cares they're all the same_ dude throws a grenade at where he was standing. His dog tags come home with black un-washable burnt marks.

Isaac laughs until his throat feels raw. And he's so angry that for a long time all he feels is fire and burnt bones. But it passes, as it always does.

(Except for this _poison_ he's got churning inside his veins, that's not as hateful as it is submissive, that burns in sudden moments, but also freezes him in and make his movements lethargic; it boils his blood, it stops him in his spot, this burble that doesn't- that doesn't _do_\- it just bitters him. He's not warm, he's just cold and poisonous.)

_Another layer of clothing_, he guesses, while his breath comes out in fumes and his hands flex and ache for _violence_.

He'd get into fights. It didn't help that half their forsaken town thought his family sucked and wasn't afraid of sharing its opinions on it; he'd look down on everyone, spitting venom and gob and saliva and spiteful words meant to humiliate and hurt. He'd propel his limbs and his muscles- _it'd burn his veins_, and he'd even snarl sometimes, grin maniacally.

(He'd lost a few jackets and coats from these moments when he couldn't keep it in his skin, this hotness, this heat, and he'd just throw them around, not really bothering where.)

He hated them, all of them. But he also didn't. He also just wanted a punching bag, to bounce back. To do something, anything. To be able to fight in return, to _answer_.

But he'd also run and hide, hunching his tallness, _not being there_. For he hated them, all of them, and he just wanted to be left alone, when it cooled him, when he ran out of gasoline.

Isaac hated all of them, except when he didn't.

Erica never wore more than one layer of clothing. And it wasn't very hard to understand why, really, the desire to mask- to _prove_. She'd say "Who gives a fuck about what these shitheads think...? I mean- not us, certainly", making sure to state that this was about _her_, not _them_.

(Anyway, they didn't care.)

And sometimes it was fun, walking around town, walking around school, beside this girl who'd shiver and whose teeth would clatter and- _well, it's not like I don't know what it's like to tremble, am I right?_

_Fuck you, Ize, it's my illness, I can make fun of it._

(That's the one thing I _can_ do.)

-who wouldn't wear anything other than a sweater or a long-sleeved yet thin blouse. It wasn't about looking pretty, it wasn't about impressing cute boys or cute girls-

_Your dad's gonna kill you for hooking up with that bitch!_

_No, being epileptic is going to kill me, now help me out._

It was about owning herself.

"So I heard your brother died a soldier", she had said while they were serving detention, storing some shit on some shelves in the stock room. She had some heavy acne across her petite face, and her rebellious blond hair was trapped in a careless bum. She was smirking. "Must have been a fucking idiot- to willingly off himself."

Erica had a lot of anger. (And Isaac was starting to notice a pattern with the people he'd align himself to.) And she also had almost the same amount of bitterness and poison he did, and that made them instant allies, if not _friends_.

"Oh, he was- an idiot, I mean.", it was all he had answered, and she actually scoffed.

Once, after one of her epileptic episodes, Erica told him, in this small voice and eyes downcast and fucking embarrassed, clicking her tongue like she was tasting something foul, that there was this permanent ice running up and down her spine. She hated it, and he hated it, but it was there, behind her eyes, the same resignation, the same numbness he often felt.

(As if life was this pit they had to climb, and, _fuck_, sometimes its walls were too sleek and the top was too far above.)

But they'd put on a brave face, or _Erica_ would put on a brave face, scorching the halls in her comfy clothes-

_her strict parents didn't admit her having anything remotely skin-showing, so she'd dress like a nun while trying to convey that she was a menace_

-walking with sure feet and bouncing her large tits, while Isaac followed suit, wearing his large cashmere, abominating it all, but gaining this -this _heated_ confidence like her strength empowered him.

(Even though sometimes her certain steps just loosen up, shift around her posture and the color on her lips (she tried biting it once to see if it'd them make rosier, instead she ended up with bruises that didn't heal for days) leave her. She becomes this pale creature, and they look like siblings, Isaac and her.)

Whether posing her hips forward or slumping her shoulders, Erica has that fierceness, that fire within, that fortress Isaac actually used to think he imitated, when in reality he barely scratched the surface.

She burns her own flame, despite the ice dripping from her spine, despite her brain and her muscles _my whole body it's not even mine for fuck' sake_ betraying her from time to time, or maybe _because_ her whole body wasn't hers, she'd use it all, she'd take it all, she'd flare red.

She'd take pleasure where she could, she'd snap at whomever and she'd take no shit from anyone, she'd glare and her eyes would flicker and gleam.

You know, from time to time.

She'd be mean and _sad_, and tired, and _gray_, what with her dead blond hair and her make up-free face. She'd put one foot in front of the other, and sometimes it was- it was visible. The struggle, the force it'd take to-. To fucking move. To fucking blink. To fucking breathe.

(_And Jesus Christ is this how mom used to feel?_)

Yet they'd smirk, they'd grin mischievously at each other, and they'd think they won. They were mostly cold, they were mostly angry, but they'd win, eventually (_we have to win, something, anything_).

All in all, it was Isaac and this very angry and very willed tiny -_god, Ize, everybody's small to you_\- mouthful of a girl against the world.

Or at least _their_ world.

And then there was him. This- uh. This _boy_.

Then there was this boy. At first-

_coming out of his grieving, wearing four layers of clothing every day, his lips the bluest and his heart the coldest and his bones flaring and reaching- snapping_ _ for violence_

-Isaac didn't like to think there was anything special about him. He was just a boy, like Vernon Boyd, laconic and _lukewarm_, whose side Isaac used to sit on during the school bus ride, was also just a boy.

But, you see, there was this boy.

On this world Isaac lives in, it makes no difference jumping into a fucking volcano or drowning in the depths of the Arctic Ocean; first, it wouldn't change the fact that _you'd die_, and second, even if your skin was burning, if you were cold, you_ felt_ _cold_.

_How was it that it went? The outside alters the inside just as much as the inside lets it_, or some shit. Meaning ice could freeze your skin, after too long exposure, sure, but were you warm, were your temperature high, you'd never feel it.

(Even though it _was_ possible to die from feeling _too_ cold, and from feeling _too_ hot. Again, he's seen it happening.)

They'd learned this on Biology, and on Chemistry, hell, even History. Some people would even look at Isaac and whisper something about his mom being truly crazy, if she thought _literally _burning up would make her feel better. Crazy and stupid.

(He'd punch them like his father had inadvertently taught him to, when people say stupid shit or just look like they deserve it-

_what with their stinking sweat or rosy cheeks like those scary porcelain dolls, or- or shoving their strong grip over themselves up everybody else's nostrils. Fucking assholes._

-It's like he had _intentionally_ taught Cam too; except it was sort of useless, since you can't punch a fucking grenade, he guesses.)

But being around this boy; it was like _being_ around a furnace. Like staring at a bonfire (he felt it once, on one of those times when Erica's perkiness made him laugh)- and, _Jesus_\- and_ feeling it_. His face would heat up, and sweat would prickle his armpits, and the spaces between his toes, inside his two pair of socks.

They said at school the sun provided them heat-

_even for those who were in a state of cold numbness, it gave them life, and it had its own heat, and it spread around to whomever could receive it_

-so Isaac assumed Scott was some kind of sun too.

(And that meant he- Isaac _could _receive it, right? That this boy managed for Isaac to _allow himself_ to get his unbidden warmth, to- to bask in his atmosphere. And that- and that meant- _just basking in was enough_.)

It wasn't like Cam or Erica or even himself, though. He wasn't burning up from the inside out, he wasn't _burning_\- but he would _emanate_ warmth, it'd be out of him, out of his body, like he could shift the air around him- and that was- that was so much more _intense_, and powerful.

Wherever he was, it was like being cold didn't matter. He'd temper the air- _which would sound like something a fucking 13 year-old with a crush would think wasn't it a factual truth_. And maybe that's why he was surrounded by these _weird_-

_this bunch of misfits this group of very frigid kids this bunch of _lost- _lost _

-_people._

Like his pale and cynical best friend, who claimed he'd only feel what he wanted to feel, and that he'd rather wear one more layer than sweat like a freaking drooling dog all over his clothes (_in this tone that meant for it to be funny and clever but it just annoyed the crap out of Isaac_), or the small redhead who said she had control over her own temperature, but laughed at Isaac when he asked _how did she do it_-

it was more like begged, but whatever

-or the pretty brunette who could go from Cam's level of heat to Isaac's of cold in the space between two sentences, if needed, and still hold her body upright like fucking royalty (yeah, he's noticed, sue him).

_Her name was Allison and her fierceness burned and froze; and unlike Isaac's or even Erica's it was actually kind of amazing._

And yet, around Scott (_around _each other_, because that's what friendship meant, right?_), it was like they got release; like they could surrender on this death grip they kept, like life was this rope they _couldn't let go_.

Like cold and hot were these masks they used for special rituals (similar to those Isaac saw while visiting the museum), and sitting together during lunch time (of all places) meant dropping it off and showing their true colors, and _relishing_\- taking it off their shoulders, exhaling.

Scott was the sun they unveiled their faces to, and they bathed in it.

But then, so did Isaac.

What took Isaac some time to realize was that Scott got lost too -that he'd quench like a stepped on cigarette butt, sometimes.

He was solid -he's tempted to say _resilient_, but aren't them all?- he was _persistent_, and- safe, concrete, _strong_, in ways Isaac didn't think kids that young should be.

(He meant_ kids that suffering_.)

(Like how he'd hold his shoulders openly and keep his arms uncrossed, and look you in the eye and mean every word- _really that paper you presented was very good, Isaac, it must have taken a lot of time to do that research. I'd give you an A, for sure-_

_Except you are not the teacher, McCall; now come over here and show us _your very good paper_._ (he shrugs self-deprecatingly at Ms. Blake's exasperation, still smiling despite the embarrassment printed on his face)

-and use this- this calm and low tone of voice that resembled assurance.)

But yet, Isaac would get these snippets, these glimpses of worried eyes and furrowed brows and hunched shoulders, and tiredness, and _sadness_. And it would reverberate _every _-fucking- _where_.

It would be like walking in an abandoned building. The walls, the floors, the people, it chilled him to the bone. And he knew, he always knew, it was Scott. Maybe his classmates didn't, maybe Erica didn't, but he did, and so did his muted and just as gloomy pack of freaks. During those days, Isaac was thrown by this fucking overwhelming desire to just- just shake Scott until he realized he needed to get his game back, because _they_ needed him to. Because everything was cold and bleak and _it wasn't right_.

And they needed him to- he _had_ to change it.

_God, didn't he know that already? That the temperature would drop whenever he went on his day without a smile?_

Isaac isn't sure, to be honest, how did he get himself into this. They weren't exactly friends at first, they barely even talked to each other, yet there he was: sit by Scott's side _deliberately_, warming (_figuratively, most days; literally, depending on his company_) the bench during another lacrosse game they shouldn't even have bothered coming, actually sweating and rubbing hands on his knees and being fidgety and looking everywhere but at the boy on his left, who's actually watching the game and cheering as if it wasn't just yesterday that the jocks had mocked him for not being able to pay for his own equipment (_but hey who could that was fucking expensive_)-

_right_ when Isaac thought he could go to practice wearing just a t-shirt; and Scott looked so humiliated and fucking _cold_. Isaac expected him to be angry, the burning red anger Cam and Erica and Allison were so good at hinting, _he even hoped his fury would burn stronger than his joy- he even _ached_ for it, for how it would make him feel, how it would scorch his veins with heat and-_ but all it did was abrade him, make him bluish and small, and Isaac felt it in his bones, and he _hated_ it.

Yet he felt himself gravitating towards Scott, and he would hide it in small smiles or bitten lips or deliberate breathing, but he _loved _it. It made him feel alive, being lured in by Scott's warmth, like a burnt path he had no choice but to follow, because it made his body feel soft, smooth, fucking_ creamy_. Heat running from his toes to his scalp in waves like this- this fluid hum, echoing below his skin.

He made him feel like melting, and _god it was so good_ he couldn't help it.

Isaac was wearing three layers of thick shirts, and his ears were so cold to the touch he was afraid they were going to break. Every sudden movement caused his body to shiver like its structures were about to crumble-

_crumble_ being exactly the word he thought would be perfect to describe his state at the moment, what with his broken and bloodied nails and his cut knuckles and bloodshot eyes, this tiredness on his very _being_ from graveyard shifts he _really didn't need to cover_

alongside with_ shit Cam it's been years what the fuck right you're _rotting

_(He hadn't seen his mom in nearly ten years. A hundred and something months. So many days; and he still couldn't tell whether this was something bad, and that was kind of- infuriatingly melancholic-_

_He hadn't seen his mom in nearly ten years and sometimes he just wished she was buried there too.)_

-and the sun was peaking from the school windows, too bright not to be felt, and most of his classmates were wearing shorts and light clothing _because_ _of course Isaac was the only one to be fucking freezing_\- but he wasn't. He wasn't.

For Scott had sat behind him in Econ and the room got three times chillier; even their crazy teacher felt it, put a jacket on, rambled something about hating this human temperature thing, laughed it off, as people like him -to whom it didn't make much of a difference (_and Isaac _used_ to be like this; wasn't it a lifetime ago_)- as people like him do.

They were getting their test results back (as if his day couldn't get better), and Isaac turns around to give Scott his, doing his best not to see his grade (honestly he'd usually mock a bad one but_ he didn't want to humiliate Scott or make him feel bad in any way for he'd grow even colder; _it was that simple), and also doing his best _to and not to_ touch his hand, so hard he was surprised his arm didn't fall off from the confusing commands his brain was giving.

He's cold, it didn't need touch to know this, and his eyes are downcast, but he looks gratefully -as he does, for the small things- at Isaac while receiving his paper, makes an amused sound at the grade, and sort of grimaces at noticing Isaac's volume of clothing.

"Bad day?", he says, and it could be considered rude or invasive wasn't for his voice being low and soft and understanding, more of a sigh than a question, as if he already knew the answer and shared the feeling.

What they do share is their cold and a small smile.

Scott has these dimples whenever his lips uplift themselves crookedly, and even the smallest shuffle makes his eyes crinkle. And it's beautiful. And it warms Isaac's heart.

He had to take off one layer between Econ and his next class.

Erica was being snarky, speaking for almost forty minutes about _these stupid girls and these stupid boys do they think this a fucking modeling event this is a fucking parade why can't they dress like normal people ugh Ize I just hate this school I wish they'd spontaneously combust_, and Isaac barks a laughter that warms up his entire being, like this humming lullaby on his ears. He feels light and easy, even though the day is clouded and it seems like it'll rain all afternoon.

He's killing time helping Erica at her cashier shift at the gas stop, pulling out boxes of canned food and chocolate bars, organizing shelves, simple shit-

which is way better than going home and facing his drunk dad- he _knows_ he'll be drunk; for today the school sent him another reply to his admission and it obviously was a _no Mr. Lahey everybody knows about your cray cray family and your anger issues- not that we care that much about the 16 year-old boy who lives with you I mean who does_

And it's fun, he's laughing, and only wearing his favorite white t-shirt, the one that makes him seem lean instead of a fucking floppy giant, and Erica seems happy too. Her cheeks are pinkish and there's an uplift on the side of her lips that hasn't gone since he's gotten there having decided to make her company. He knows last week she's spent three days at the hospital and missed some shitty party Lydia Martin was throwing, which left her red with anger and blue with resignation, all at the same time, on the same speed, on the same level. She deserved the easiness of pinkish spirit, he thought.

When he can't stall anymore he tells her goodbye, gives her a kiss on the cheek (they're warm and his own lips are warm and he feels happy and simple, really), and walks home, dreading every step, but still feeling this tepid breath of air through his veins.

This thrumming of joy.

(_His night might be awful but at least his afternoon was pretty awesome._)

He laughs at something he remembers Erica saying- something about Stilinski and the way he tried to make his cheeks blush with the force of his own will just to spite the Whittemore jock-

Isaac wasn't envious that he actually _managed_ to do it; he wasn't.

-when he hears it. This terrible chocking sound, followed by small whimpers, like someone was suffocating, gasping desperately for air. He thinks about running away, _god knows the kind of freaks he'd encounter on this side of town_, but finds himself following the sound anyway.

As it is, Scott is clutching his broken bike with one hand, while holding with the other an inhaler against his mouth with a strong grip. His nose is bloody and he's got a bruise on his left cheekbone. There are tears forming in the corner of his eyes and the air around him is so cold Isaac- Isaac feels freezing and burning all of sudden, like he's home already _(dreadful fear, furious sense of injustice)_.

But he isn't.

_(God- god is he _hurt_? Who the _fuck_ would do this to him?)_

He walks towards Scott, bracing himself against a gust of wind.

"Hey, McCall... ?", there are more gasps, small little sounds from the back of his throat, which would have sound adorable wasn't for the situation they were emitted. His limbs ache for- for _something_, and his voice soften. "Hey... Scott... ? Are you- is everything alright?"

Scott looks at him with his deep brown eyes that are not big enough to be so powerful and piercing (but they _are_), and sags a bit, says in a hoarse voice, "I'm okay", then kicks his bike helplessly (_Isaac tries not to flinch too visibly_) and sits heavily on the floor, releasing a bitter laughter. "I'm peachy!"

He doesn't sound like it. Isaac takes two steps at his direction, approaching him like an wounded animal. He was hurt, not just physically, as the shivers he was getting were more than enough proof, and Isaac should feel thorough, or at least careful, but his blood is just this side of boiling and he doesn't know what to do about it.

(Because it's not his _usual boiling_, it's- it's not hateful fire, it's something else.

More but less intense at the same time.)

"You don't look okay", which- understatement.

"Well, you should see the other guy", and there's a sob hidden behind his self-deprecating laughter, and Isaac thinks about grabbing a coat, covering his own arms, but Scott shudders, wearing only one of his sleeveless shirts, and he thinks better of it.

"Do you- uh" _shit is he really doing this doesn't it look like a scene from a fucking movie- but what else is there to be done_ "Do you have a coat or something? You're shivering a bit."

Scott squints at him from his spot on the floor, and he's massaging his ribs _oh crap_ _are they broken?_ and Isaac fidgets under his stare, feeling warmer than he should at the circumstances, but his gaze suddenly _burns_ and he can't pretend not to feel it.

"I don't", he finally answers, pulling himself up and grimacing a little at the movement, "But I'm really okay. It's nothing, honestly", but his voice is broken and still too hoarse- like his throat is way too dry. "I just hate the asthma shit, though. It feels like breathing sand", and then more to himself, an almost whisper, "Can't even get a beaten without nearly dying". He laughs again, and when it normally makes Isaac's heart skip and his blood run free through his veins (he read that's what makes them warm, in the end), this time it just empties him. It's this hollow sound that doesn't even reach his eyes and Isaac aches again, he boils again.

"I can let you borrow my coat" _what shit-oh wait-_ "Uh- I me-" clears his throat, looks at the floor, blushes, "I mean, if you want. I'm not- I'm not feeling cold. I don't need it." In fact, there's so much heat in his face he's almost tearing up- _and wouldn't _that_ be embarrassing_.

Why_ isn't he feeling cold anyway? (He's not even that angry, he's-.)_

Scott looks at himself, probably only then registering his state: bloody and bruised and freezing-

_the hairs on his arms are up and his skin looks soft and his nipples are hard and- well_

_(He's craving.)_

-and then looks at Isaac again, eyes going softer somehow, says "You sure you won't need it?", and Isaac huffs at that, making a small gesture with his hand as if saying _course not_-

but actually thinks_ course not why would I need it with the way you're looking at me I'll feel warm for weeks_\- even though he knows it'll probably become this subsided thing, this light fever, as soon as he gets home- but it'll belike water in low heat _(so it's okay)_

-takes his coat from his backpack, all wrinkled and _shit_ maybe even smelly, but Scott's still looking at him, expectantly this time, _brown eyes due to devour him whole_, and he just swallows his pride and throws the coat the other boy's way.

"Just- just don't get blood on it", he jokes, and Scott actually _laughs _-you know, _his laugh_, joyous and cheerful and fucking amazing, though still subdued- at that, pulling Isaac's coat on and bracing himself in it.

"Thank you, Isaac, really", Scott says, so earnest and truthful, keeping his gaze for a _very _long second_ how did that work anyway is he really inside a fucking movie_ and Isaac thanks the cosmos that he then turns to grab his bike from the floor so he doesn't see the absolute dark red state of his cheeks and the way his breath comes raggedly, his whole body choking on it, so warm it-

It feels like a small child's hand place safely around his chest _(stronger)_, like mom hugs _(tighter)_, or Cam's bark-laughter _(louder)_, and fucking heavy while weighting nothing and Isaac wants to explode or implode or fucking melt right there under Scott's presence and the sun isn't even out.

_(And, shit, this isn't even a proper occasion- I mean _come on_ the guy's just taken a beating.)_

Yet he feels it nonetheless. And it makes itself noticed. It makes itself unforgettable.

Scott's glimmering slightly, warmth back bit by bit, and he smiles again, this full-face thing that's always managed to weaken his knees, and he might whisper "bye, Isaac" before waving almost shyly _oh my god_ and limping away but Isaac can't- he can't hear him, to be honest. His brain is buzzing and his blood _is definitely for sure_ flaring, _blazing_; with this humming _fucking screaming more like it_ giddiness, and satisfaction.

(And this _irritation_ -holding itself on the back of his head- managing only to flex his tendons and his jaw and make him itch slightly.)

He's been burning with the desire to touch Scott from the moment he's found him, that much he knew. Maybe that was why he didn't feel himself getting cold at Scott's low temperature, as it usually happened. He felt _protective_, and not angry, but filled with _something_, something too caring and too longing- for touch for reassurance _just to make sure he was actually alright_\- and that feeling scorched him, deep.

(Not pissed but _worried_.)

He sighs, still looking absently at the spot Scott's head had been, then turns around and resumes his walk home. His stomach churning pleasantly.

Isaac's known what that was for a while now;

even though he also knew that Scott was just- _just like that_-_ like the way he was, emanating heat to whomever was around-_ and his reaction to him was pretty normal and even Erica felt somewhat better around the boy-

Isaac's known what that was. And it _would_ terrify him wasn't it so freaking _easy_, like involuntary breathing- wasn't it so _good_, didn't it make him feel so _warm_ and comfortable in his own skin, like that's something that _happens_ to him, like he was usually so easily elating.

And he suddenly thinks, this thought that comes and goes out of nowhere, that it's getting easier, switching from one to the other. Feeling summer in the midst of winter.

They're training. Which is nice, for it means everybody gets to try the goal and everybody gets to be a _sportsman_ or something equally exciting or self-satisfying.

(Or so he hears the Stilinski kid ramble.)

There's activity, there's perspiration, and their muscles work in this non-stop blur of bodies and he feels satisfied, woozy with this blushed hot tiredness. Doesn't feel like his bones are giving in, though; it's- it's _good_. He stops to catch his breath, wipe some sweat from the space above his mouth, shake his curls like a dog would-

_Dude, warn a guy!_

_Oh for fuck- Lahey just freaking rained on me, Coach, can I just go_-

_Don't laugh, Isaac, I actually think some fell inside my mouth_.

And he's half giggling half smirking and _not_ apologizing. At least to the rest of them.

Scott's on his back lying on the grass, elbows supporting his torso, knees pulled up, smiling that embarrassed smile of his, licking his lips with this exaggerated _and so very cute_ wrinkle on his face.

(_And god if that isn't the most appealing thing he's ever seen._)

Isaac's hot all over, new drops of sweat falling from his forehead, flushed, unstoppable grin in display. Without thinking, he extends his hand-

to reach to brush to rub to touch to _get close_

-and still beaming, amused, Scott takes it.

Their hands slide and interlock with this smacking sound, their palms so sweaty it's a wonder they manage to hold on to each other. Isaac's blood is burning up, it could be evaporating, his skin is prickling, he feels like flying and he feels like melting.

_It doesn't make much sense._

But then he pushes Scott up and their chests collide slightly before they take a step back, and it's this slow motion moment; his blinding smile inches from his own, heat so close it tingles _everywhere_\- and their hands still interlocked in this tight knot.

_(The sun wouldn't burn fierier than their stare, than the careful and slow inhale exhale coming into their noses coming out of their mouths._

_Certainly it couldn't.)_

Isaac wonders if it'll affect his hand or his body like an actual burn would. If it'd make a difference burning alive or having Scott's hands searing themselves all over his pale yet flushed skin.

He's hot, so hot, because he _wants this boy_. From his toned limbs to his large shoulders to his blemished cheeks to his full lips. He wants to scorch himself around his heat, relish on it.

_Burn_.

He's 17 years-old and he's in love.

He's 17 and safely wrapped in a handshake that might as well be a bear hug for how it warms and constricts and- it's not bad. It doesn't make him feel claustrophobic.

It sort of frees him.

It happens one night.

Isaac can only tell the weather is shitty by this wettish mist falling on his shoulders. He's wearing a cardigan over his favorite t-shirt, for he feels light and warm and _buzzing_ with pleasure.

He's nearly kicked out of Stiles' blue Jeep, which earns the boy at the steering wheel a pair of middle fingers.

"You're an ass, Lahey! I'll never drive you home again!", and he leaves with that.

The contrast between the bicker and their chuckles-

he can faintly hear Erica screaming (in that way it means she's too crazed_ too happy_ to care) "Shit we should totally use those eggs to christen Jackson's house" before the car makes a sharp curve left

-and the heavy silence coming from his house stops him dead on his tracks.

_Agh, crap._

(He stays there, staring at his front door for a while, skin still tingling, still breathless from laughter, still choking on heat and dazzling smiles.)

Inhaling, he puts the key in, unlocks the door, gets in, takes his shoes off, closes the door, locks it. Exhales.

The house is dark, quiet, still. Isaac walks straight to the stairs, straight to his room, eyes fixed on the stairs, then he hears it.

It's this- this _pitying_ sound, more of a sigh than a whine, followed by this distinctive sniffing of someone who's cried their soul out and now it's pathetically just- honestly just trying to prevent their nose from running.

Isaac feels his bones grow cold.

His dad's half laying on the couch, an emptied bottle of some cheap drink trapped on his right hand, the left rubbing his puffy eyes, glasses on the floor, shivering so much it jerks his body-

_for a second Isaac thinks he's getting up and he has to put his feet down to stop himself from flinching _

-it clatters his teeth, it shows on his breath.

Approaching him carefully, not knowing what could make him snap _and he never knows, does he? _Isaac asks, not being able to hide the fear in his voice, "D-dad? You okay?"

His dad starts sobbing.

In this moment Isaac notices every single picture from their living room is either turned or shattered on the floor, and he swallows hard.

_(He wants to say "I miss them too, dad"; he doesn't. He instead averts his gaze from the broken creature in front of him, closes his eyes, sets his jaw so hard it should hurt. Breathes deeply.)_

He-he's. He's far from forgiving; Isaac. He's- _not_ forgiving.

He's far from opening his arms and having some sort of Christmas moment, some Lifetime movie thing. He's closed to this man, he's wary and he's hateful, he's quiet and fearful and submissive. He's locked, and he doesn't think-

_fuck- he doesn't _want_ to, he doesn't own him shit_

-he can ever be. Loving towards him. Be caring. Be kind.

(Not anymore. He doesn't know how.

_He's afraid -he's _afraid_\- his first instinct is to hurt rather than to comfort_.)

But he can do _this_.

(This is somewhat easy. This is movement.)

He takes the bottle from his dad's loosen fingers, he finds an old blanket on the downstairs closet, he tucks him in, he pats his shoulders lightly -_his muscles strained_-, he says in a whisper he couldn't turn soft, "Get some sleep, dad".

He kisses the top of his father's head with lips still warm from another boy's mouth.

_Because they were still warm from another boy's touch._

(But also because he did this to Isaac once, he remembers.)

And then he goes to his room and cries himself to sleep trying not to shiver too strongly, his tears hot from anger, his sobs low from sadness.

(He doesn't _think_; for this is easy- for this is movement.)

The next day, his dad doesn't look at him, but wishes him a sour "good morning", to which he answers with a nod.

He's not forgiving, but the sun's out and it heats up his skin; and Scott gives him a ride to school on his stupid green dirtbike.

So Isaac holds on tight.

He notices, or he's _been_ noticing-

and god does it take _ages_\- _god does it take pain and death and sobbing and laughing so hard his jaw aches and kissing so much his lips swell_

-being this realization more of a slow burn than a sudden thought, _that_.

This is how his world goes: being cold or being warm or even burning up sometimes- sometimes feels like a social requisite.

_Like something that's not yours_; like a _fucking cloak_ you put on to mask yourself, to cover yourself, your role on the intricate and sometimes outright annoying webs and specificities of their social _young mostly school_ _related_ life. The cold and sad, the hot and active, the ones that control their own temperatures like they control their own lives (_they're powerful and big and are looked up like giants among the small and broken_), ones who can jump from one to another in a beat, and others like Scott.

(The ones who are not ashamed of feeling, and letting others know _they were feeling_\- something, anything. And that feeling was good. That crying was okay. That smiling too bright and actually looking like a eight year-old on Christmas Eve was- _well he said it was beautiful_. Scott's noticed long ago that reflecting their emotions on their temperature was not so much of a curse as an organic part of who they were- and it was simply that: a reflection.

And he goes along with it as he does- as he does with everything else.

_He shares, he opens, he lets it in, he lets it out._)

_You see_, he's not special; Isaac knows there are some people who're just- _external_, who're not stuck inside their own bodies and their own thoughts, who don't, who _can't_ lock their warmth inside a box, inside themselves. They reach out to others, so much their presence can be felt from miles. They are called _compassionate, empathetic,_ _charismatic_.

And Isaac understands now that that's one of the reasons he was so drawn to this boy. One of the reasons why his pack of misfits surround him as well. Because Scott has managed- _he's managed_, in a way Isaac craved-

_in a way that Isaac greedily wanted, desired, lusted for_. He's managed it to-.

And Isaac _understands_, sometimes he can actually clasp his arms around it, this _knowledge_, this filter through which he sees life.

_That_-

-he's not in the least in control of his life, of himself, he's thrown at situations that take him off balance, yet he stands up, soften around the irises, _somehow_; he brushes off the dirt, _picks his bike up_, and then is able to catch warmth whenever he can, wherever he finds it, and it's visually beautiful, seeing the color back on his cheeks, feeling the air around him heat up, noticing his facial muscles shift and turn into such an easy and captivating smile it's hard not to fall prey to its curves.

(And he does- Isaac. _He does._

He's fallen.)

And- and maybe, maybe Isaac can find it in himself too, this extreme resilience. Being able to come out of the cold darkness from the depths of the freezer, like climbing out of a ditch, a trench, as a victor of a war he didn't sign up to be a part of; _he can find warmth in small things- and make it big, make it immense_.

Like his picture with Cam on the zoo, or his mom crooked teeth above his baby bald head. Like Erica's long locks and the way she feels beautiful every once in a while, walking with her hips rather than her legs. Like Allison's boldness, her sweet dimples and her killer smile.

Like receiving a praise from a especially difficult teacher, weirdly enough, or making a nearly perfect pass during a game that earns them their winning goal, or- or the exhilarating feeling of running around the field, or fucking _chocolate_ or his dad's old collection of rare rock albums; or- _I don't know, man, anything that makes you happy_

_You do._

_(God, _his_ smile is beautiful.)_

Like- _fuck_\- like Scott's earth-colored glassy eyes and the moles spreading his very soft looking neck and that one on the tip of his uneven jaw; and the smooth touch of his calloused hands and the tone of his voice and the dip of his surprisingly small waist.

(And- and how he _fits_ with Isaac on every touching point possible, from mouths to chests to hips to tangled legs; and how their tongues are wet and hungry where their hands are soft and gentle. And how their panting breaths mix and turn into this burning, into this fiery wind, this heated hurricane that threatens to take both on its tail and it does and it's a peace Isaac didn't think he could find.)

Like that time half of the lacrosse team had gotten food poisoning and couldn't play and his dad went to see his game and he actually pat - _pat pat_ he pat his shoulder and smiled so wide his glasses shifted above his cheeks. And he was warm and Isaac grinned so much he swore his face would split up.

And there was a time it wouldn't be enough, _never enough heat too cold too freezing too windy please god just give me warmth_, but maybe he's growing up. Maybe he's learning; it's not perfect, and sometimes he craves for this _breeze on his neck on his cheeks breathe too close to me I want to feel the air coming out of your mouth and color my body _and not having it seem too much and he aches and his bones hurt but- but it's not always. _It's not often, it's not forever. _And he's coming to an understandment, a knowledge, _that_. That this is sufficient- _fuck, this is enough_. Maybe it's not as easy as Scott makes it seem to be-

and Isaac's not dumb to think it is that easy for him either, for sometimes he's _just as_ thoughtful and understanding and he just knows nobody has it easy (_it's not that often, though; he's got enough on his plate, thank you very much, asshole_).

-maybe sometimes his contrasts pain and mess him up, and he shivers too much and sweat too much; yet- _yet_, he thinks.

_That_. This is how his world _goes_.

He thinks this is his balance; and it's not what he wanted but it's so much more than he thought he'd ever get. Back there seeing his mom fumble with the matches to either watch their red and orange bliss or light up Isaac's birthday cake.

To hot to cold to hot to cold to burning to freezing to melting to stoning to hot to cold to chilly to warm and- _god_, isn't that how the weather works?

* * *

**a.n.: **I haven't written something in such a long time, and those essays for college totally ruined me. So I tried to be as consistently inconsistent as possible, because these characters are human beings (no shit!), meaning they go forward but also have residual feelings and somewhat fixed thoughts that are hard to let go, so there's that.

And, oof, this is my first Teen Wolf, and Scisaac, and Isaac centric fanfiction. Apparently I have a lot of feelings and thoughts about the whole thing cos _I have never _written so much in my entire life haha (So there's that). Just- this took me a long time, for I was analyzing every single scene and thought and situation and honestly I still don't think it's remotely nice (might be cos I've re-read it so much, ugh), and I'm a bit terrified cos _dude are these characters confusing!_; so just- you know, change my mind, talk to me about it, or don't! Dude, I just hope someone enjoys it :)

Thank you for reading, anyway.


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